Choices
by RainbowBetty
Summary: Sam hadn't made mistakes. He'd made choices. And now, with the gun pointed to his head, there was really just one choice left to make. AU aftermath of 8.06, Southern Comfort. Trigger warning for suicide.
1. Chapter 1

Dean dropped the weapons bag on the foot of Sam's bed with a dull thump on his way past without a word, crossing from the door to the bathroom. Sam glanced up in time to see the door slam shut, and looked at the duffle, the expectation apparent: _your turn to clean the guns._

Sam sighed and closed his laptop.

A moment later, he heard the water in the shower switch on. He set the laptop down beside him on the bed and thought about Amelia pressed against his chest, about Riot's soft fur between his fingers and his cold wet nose against his palm, and it surprised him when tears sprung to his eyes. He quickly blinked them away, because no. He'd ruined that. He'd walked away from _that._

Because he didn't deserve to have anything good, anything decent or pure. Those were the things he always managed to destroy.

Those were the choices he made.

There had been nothing but cold formalities from Dean since Sam had stood his ground outside the Impala. With Dean's words burrowing like acid into his gut, he'd thrown it all right back, threatening to "ice" the vampire Dean had called a better brother than him. And though Dean's recollection of the things he'd said to Sam were hazy, that seemed to solidify it for him. That Sam was no longer the brother he'd once cared for, protected, given his life for. He was done with Sam. He was Benny's.

Sam saw it happen, one more thing gone, ruined. It reflected in the way Dean's eyes turned cold and hard when he looked at him, as if there was nothing there worth saving.

He heard the shower shut off and shook himself, reaching over to draw the bag closer, sitting cross-legged in front of it on the bed. A few minutes later, Dean came out, dressed and running a towel over his hair. He tossed the towel onto a chair and picked up his keys off the table.

Sam drew in a breath. "Dean—?"

"I'll get food," he said, without a glance at Sam. And he was out the door before Sam could reply.

He'd thought they might go out somewhere. Get a drink. Sit down. That they might talk. Maybe Sam would explain. Fix things. Make a new start. Any other day of the year, maybe he wouldn't have thought it was worth trying. But today…

"Happy Thanksgiving," he muttered, looking back down at the weapons bag.

He felt the tears coming back again, and it made him angry, because he didn't want to feel sorry for himself. He was done with pity. The thought made him smile bitterly, thinking of Amelia again, her hardened exterior so much like Dean he couldn't help but love her. When he kissed her it was like everything falling into place, like letting go of the fear, guilt, and grief.

Letting go, while Dean had been holding on.

_Never once left you to die._

Sam drew back the zipper on the bag and pulled out one of the guns that he knew was still loaded. How many times had Dean saved his life? He'd been a burden to Dean since he was six months old.

Dean was right. He hadn't made mistakes. He'd made choices. He'd chosen to be every disappointment that Dean saw in him. Chosen to drink demon blood, use his powers, set Lucifer free. _Chosen_ to lie, deceive, mislead, endanger Dean's life, murder innocent people.

He cringed inwardly and forced himself to acknowledge the things he'd done without a soul. That was _him,_ body and mind, _he_ made those choices. Dean should have left his soul to rot in Hell where it belonged.

He had one choice left.

He brought the barrel up against the underside of his jaw.

There was the faint sound of a key turning in the door.

Sam's pulse sped up. He closed his eyes, the gun heavy in his hand. It didn't matter. Didn't matter. One pull of the trigger and it would be done. He didn't want to see Dean again. He didn't want the betrayal in Dean's eyes to be the last thing he saw. Dean would go through the motions of stopping him, would pick up his end of the rope in their familiar _save Sam _tug-of-war,and Sam just couldn't.

He heard Dean set the bags down inside the door and take a step toward him. "Sam. Sam, whoa. Sam, stop. Whatever you're doing, stop."

"Dean, leave. Please. Don't be here."

"Sam—"

He drew back the hammer, eyes still screwed shut, and he heard Dean's breath catch.

"Okay," Dean said. "Sam. _Please_. Give me a chance, here."

Sam shook his head. "I'm… I'm sorry, Dean. For all of it."

He opened his eyes one last time and met Dean's panicked gaze, and took in the way he stood with his hands held up, palms out. _Don't,_ his posture said. So much between them had always passed without words. Everything in Dean at that moment was screaming _don't, please_.

And Sam almost didn't.

Then he inhaled and pulled the trigger.

* * *

He was aware of the sounds first. A distant, rhythmic beeping, a static hum, and a steady whoosh of air near his left side. After a moment, he noticed the light behind his eyes. He tried to open his eyes, but it was too bright, and he squeezed them shut, tears instantly filling them.

He tried to turn his head, and found that he couldn't.

"Sammy?"

Dean's hand was on his forehead, a familiar warmth and pressure that Sam couldn't help leaning into. "Sam. Hey," he said, relief heavy in his voice. "Sam, don't try and talk, okay? They'll get the breathing tube out before you know it, man, you just need to hang tight. You're gonna be okay, all right? Sam. You hearing me? Don't talk, don't move your head, just squeeze my hand if you're with me."

That's when he realized his hand had been in Dean's the whole time, Dean's hand solid and secure around his. He gripped Dean's hand hard feeling hot tears slide down his cheeks.

He'd fucked up. In so many unforgivable ways, but this was perhaps the worst, the final and most despicable show of weakness. If he hadn't been certain he deserved to die before, he was now.

"Sam. Hey, come on. Open your eyes for me."

Obediently, miserably, Sam opened his eyes and looked up at Dean. Dean looked so pale, with dark, tired circles under his eyes, but he smiled down at Sam.

Sam opened his mouth to apologize and immediately gagged on the tube in his throat. He tried to bring his hands up on reflex, but found that his wrists were restrained to the sides of the bed to keep him from unconsciously pulling at the tube, and panic surged through him. He heard the beeping of the monitors increasing around him. A wave of horror crashed down on him and suddenly he wasn't _there_ anymore, he was—

It happened sometimes. Sometimes triggered by the feel of something against his skin, a smell, a sudden noise. The horrors of the cage would come rushing in at him all at once. It was like being caught in a tidal wave, being dragged under by a fierce current, and all he could do was try not to drown in the horror of it until it passed.

It always passed. He just had to remember. Had to fight it back.

Dean put his hands on Sam's shoulders and talked him through it. "Don't talk, Sam. There's nothing you need to say right now, okay? Just listen." Dean wiped the tears away with the sides of his hands and cupped Sam's face. "You listen, Sam. You hear me?"

He nodded, eyes locked with Dean's.

"I know I said some things that hurt you. And I'm sorry. Sorry I made you think—"

Sam's brow furrowed and his eyes darted away. Dean took hold of his chin. "You're gonna hear this, Sam. Okay?" He took a breath. "I'm sorry that… that I _ever_ did anything to make you think putting a gun to your head was the answer. God. Sam. I just… I'd be next. I'd be one bullet behind you."

The tube in Sam's throat wouldn't let him argue, wouldn't let him come back with all of the reasons it had nothing to do with _Dean,_ that it was all Sam's own weakness, his own failings, his _choices_. Dean didn't deserve the same fate, not by a long shot. But he had no voice, and all he could do was plead with Dean through his eyes to understand that wasn't what he'd meant when he'd pulled the trigger.

_Sorry,_ he mouthed around the tube, new tears forming in his eyes. Dean squeezed his hand.

"Don't be sorry," he said through tears of his own. "Be better. Just get better."


	2. Chapter 2

Dean couldn't close his eyes. It kept replaying in front of him, and no matter which way he tried to turn it he still ended up in this hospital room with Sam's lifeless hand clutched in his.

Five days later, after three surgeries, one cardiac arrest and an emergency intubation, all he kept seeing was the moment when Sam's finger closed on the trigger and sent a bullet into the back of his little brother's skull.

After they'd stabilized him the first time, Dean had lunged at the surgeon who'd saved Sam's life and had to be physically restrained, because _no it fucking wasn't luck._ Sam wouldn't have missed. Sam knew how to take a life.

Sam _meant_ to miss.

He clung to that like it was all he had left, and how dare they try and strip it away with luck.

If someone hadn't been holding him then, he would have fallen, because the adrenaline surging through him was too much – _too much blood, his hands not enough to stop it, the hospital an eternity away, the way Sam's head had jerked back _– and his legs chose that moment to opt out on the job. He felt his knees give and he grabbed hold of something that felt like someone's shirt as the room swam in dizzy lines.

Someone guided him to a chair and made him sit. Dean dug his phone out of his pocket and dialed Garth with hands that shook, that were still coated in Sam's blood. "What'd I say?" he demanded, pain and fury ripping through his voice. "What did I say to Sammy, Garth? Goddamn it. Why didn't you shoot me? Why didn't you _shut me the hell up?"_

Sam climbed his way out of the coma five days later, had been awake and alert. Responsive, his chart said. After Sammy choked on the tube in this throat and panicked, Dean had untied the cuffs holding his hands down, cursing himself for letting them do that to his brother. But he was so tired. He just hadn't noticed. He wondered what else he'd managed not to notice.

The nurse holding Sam's chart smiled when she saw Sam's hand in his. "I heard he was awake, that's fantastic!" she said. "He's lucky to have a brother like you who will sit here with him."

It was nothing but a twist of the knife. Dean tried to return her smile and his failed attempt faded almost instantly.

"We've been bringing his oxygen levels down on the ventilator, and he's doing just fine breathing on his own. So we're going to go ahead and remove his trach tube. We do want him to be awake for it though. We'll want to explain to him what to expect. It can be a little bit traumatic sometimes." She smiled again at Dean. "But he'll have you here, so I'm sure he'll be all right."

Dean's hand tightened on Sam's, replaying the moment when the lines on the monitors surrounding Sam had gone flat and he'd been shouldered out of the way by a team that would restart Sam's heart, force a tube down his throat to make him breathe, while Dean could do nothing but shout at them _not to fucking hurt him._

It was a joke, a fucking joke. Because of all the people in that room, only _he_ could hurt Sam with so much lethal precision.

"We'll be right in with the equipment. Why don't you see if you can get him up and awake," the nurse said, jerking Dean back to the present, and Dean nodded.

He ran his other hand along Sam's arm, giving it an emphatic pat. "Sam," he said. "Hey, man. Rise and shine."

A flutter of awareness ran through Sam, and his hand twitched in Dean's. He opened his eyes, and immediately looked away.

"Sam." God, his voice sounded tired. "Gonna get that tube out of you, okay? Sound good?"

Sam didn't answer. Didn't look at Dean. Just stared impassively at the wall.

"Okay," Dean said quietly, almost to himself.

A short time later, the nurse returned with a nurse assistant and a cart of suction equipment and other things Dean didn't recognize. She put a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder and explained what she was going to do, how she was going to remove the tube and Sam just needed to stay calm and relax, hold his brother's hand and not tense up. She looked at Dean while she said it as if she naturally sensed that Dean had the power to keep Sam calm, and Dean wondered if that were true anymore, or if he even believed it.

"I'm going to give you something to help with any discomfort," she explained, reaching for a vial, and Sam's hand darted out and seized her wrist, his eyes suddenly gone wide with fear.

"It's okay," she soothed. "It's just an anesthetic. It's standard procedure."

Sam looked over at Dean desperately. _Cage,_ his eyes said. Dean understood.

"He doesn't need it," Dean translated. "He'll be fine."

"But we usually—"

"He has a high threshold." Dean squeezed Sam's hand. "Look, just trust me. There are too many people… doing too many… _things_ to him right now. Just. It's fine. Let's skip the meds."

She set the vial down. She and the nurse assistant moved Sam's bed into an upright position. "This will be over in just minute," she assured him, releasing the strap that held the tube in place and easing it forward.

"Eyes on me, Sam," Dean said. Sam's eyes latched on to Dean and didn't let go.

* * *

"Dean? How bad?"

It was the first thing Sam had said since they'd asked him to give his voice a try, and he'd whispered _it's okay, it's fine _before breaking into a fit of coughing.

His voice was wrecked. It hurt to hear him talk. It reminded Dean of how Sam had sounded after he'd nearly had his windpipe crushed by one of the vengefuls they'd taken down. And it was a question he might very well have asked Dean then, too, after Dean had hauled his ass out of harm's way, stopped whatever was bleeding and set whatever was broken.

He felt a flare of anger, the first glimmer of anything he'd felt breaking through the suffocating web of fear and recrimination in days, and he welcomed it. He needed it.

"Well, _not dead,_ so I guess it depends on what you're going for."

The look on Sam's face hit his anger like a wall of water, and he wished like hell he could take it back.

"Right. Sorry," Sam mumbled, eyes darting to the wall.

"Tell me you didn't mean to do it. Please. Tell me something. Help me understand."

Sam didn't say anything.

"Fuck!" Dean shouted. "You don't get to just check out like this! You owe me more than that. After everything, Sam. Why? _You know_ I was under the influence of that thing back there. I wouldn't have said those things to you if it hadn't been-"

"You meant what you said. And it's all true."

"What, that you got fucking _manipulated_ into freeing Lucifer? That soulless you was a psychopath? You think I _blame_ you for those things?"

"I think you—probably do blame me, yeah. But." He shrugged, looking suddenly small and lost somehow. "Now you have Benny."

Dean frowned, not comprehending. "Benny?"

"You don't need me. Dean. You never needed me, not really. You just clung to me because… I was the only family you had. The best you could do. And I-I've never done anything but drag you down. Hold you back."

"That's not true. How could you think that?"

"It is true."

"Sam."

"I thought you were dead. _You weren't dead, Dean,_ and I left you for dead. What kind of brother does that?"

"Sam…" Dean looked down, then back at his brother. "The kind of brother that does what I ask him to do. For once."

Sam shook his head, wincing as the motion jarred his stitches. "Benny—"

"He helped me, yeah. He had my back. You would have had my back if you'd been there. But Sammy, I'm glad you weren't."

Sam chewed the inside of his lip, making the muscle on the side of his face twitch. "Dean. Don't lie to me. How bad is it?"

Dean saw the fear in Sam's eyes then, how the corners of his lips pulled tight when he said it, and he realized Sam really didn't know. All his trust was in Dean, as it always had been, to tell him he was fine. And Dean hadn't told him he was fine. Dean hadn't told him a thing. He realized then how cruel that was, how out of touch he'd become with what Sam needed from him when it used to be the first and only thing he paid any attention to.

Maybe he and Sam didn't need to be so caught up in each other that they couldn't live their own lives, but it didn't mean he wanted to give that part of himself up, either. And he damn well didn't want Sam to give it up. Was that selfish? Maybe he didn't know what he wanted. Maybe he didn't care as long as it meant taking care of Sammy.

"Fine, Sam, you're going to be just fine. You could walk out of here right now if you wanted to."

"Seriously?" Sam took a deep breath, and all of the tension eased out of him.

It actually took some of Dean's with it. "Yeah," he said, even smiling a bit. "You're a crap shot, always have been."

"Too soon, Dean."

"Okay." He clasped his hand around Sam's again, feeling the surge of warmth and protectiveness he'd been missing. "Okay, understood."


End file.
